


Tales from Hell Valley

by solisandluna



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-30 04:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10153307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solisandluna/pseuds/solisandluna
Summary: A collection of drabbles and small fics about 1985A, or as known to its current residents, Hell Valley. More tags will come the more chapters I post.





	1. 1975

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I've always loved how dark the 1985A segment of BttF pt.II was and I've always wondered what how events then would have changed the characters and just the world in general. But I could never come up with a cohesive story for it, so I decided to create small stories instead. Hell Valley is not a happy place and there'll be violence and a lot of mature subjects discussed here, so you have been warned. But there may also be fluff, so you never know. Happy stuff may happen too.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of bttf.

He didn’t expect blood to spurt into his mouth; the bitter substance spraying right into the back of his throat, making him almost gag, but still he clung on, his teeth sinking further and further into the flesh. He could hear bellowing over the blood rushing through his ears, the low roar of Biff and the higher cries of his mother, but he didn’t let go. Violence and anger didn’t come often to Marty, nor did he usually act upon those urges with such vehemence. But seeing him there blinded all rational thought. He had become a mass of rage and hurt, hurtling towards him like an exploding rocket, his limbs quivering with unspoken energy and anger.

The large, beefy arm swung and he flew- he soared- before crashing against the wall. Stars spun before his eyes and he felt his own blood fill his mouth, hot and familiar and he spat out a tooth. The tears started before he could stop them. He didn’t want to cry- he wanted to stay angry, but now the blood hot rage was cooling, leaving hardened fear in it’s stead. Biff was a beast, a huge hulking one that seemed to fill up the whole room, obliterating even his mother from view.

Spittle bubbled with blood as he cried. It was drooling down his chin and it was sliding down Biff’s heavy forearm, dripping bit by bit onto the carpet. It had not been the first time he had been introduced to the concept of death- he’d had to get acquainted with the idea when he was just four, but now he was two years older and it seemed to be coming for him, death now seemed somehow more real and a lot more scary. He didn’t seem human, gigantic and furious, his eyes burning out of their sockets. He couldn’t even move as Biff came for him; he stayed stuck against the wall, paralysed with fear and when he was sure he was going to swoop down upon him, when he was certain that he would feel the crunch of those large knuckles against his skull, Biff was no longer in view.

His mom was dwarfed by him too, let she stood, like a rock bracing themselves for a wave to crash down upon them; it would come, an unbridled force of nature, yet still the rock would not falter.

“Get out of my way, Lorraine!” He was loud, so loud Marty wanted to cover his ears, but he didn’t dare move lest those burning flashlights fell back upon him.

“If you hurt him again, I will kill you,” he could see her tremble, only the tremors were in her legs and not her voice. All that was in her voice was steely determination. She wasn’t going to falter now, “I mean, it, Biff.”

“Look what he did to my arm!”

He held it up and Marty couldn’t help but look at it, the red, fleshy mess that he’d created. It did look bad and a tiny pinprick of pride jabbed at his heart. Biff wasn’t invincible- it was news that came to Marty as a surprise.

“He’s seven,” the words were ground out and cold; they came from an icy fire deep inside of her, “are you really going to hurt my seven year old son over that?”

Biff stood there, huffing and puffing, like a bull trying to decide which target to charge at first. He gave Lorraine a look of spiteful hatred that lingered for far too long, before his eyes fell on Marty, who still sat, plastered against the wall, covered in blood and spit and tears.

“I don’t think your Dad would have let you get away with that,” he spoke, the words hot and low, dangerous, a smile hidden in them like a grinning alligator in the reeds, “and seeing as I’m your step-dad now, I’m not gonna be letting you get away with it either,” he lent in by a mere fraction, but Marty mirrored the move, sliding back against the wallpaper, “you got that, kid?”

He didn’t move. He sat there, barely a breath leaving his body, his wide eyes still on the menacing creature. A smile grew on it’s face, hungry and venomous, and Marty could count all of it’s teeth; Biff looked like he wanted to eat him alive.

“You and me- we’re gonna have a lot of fun together, kid,” he chuckle hissed between his teeth, “you’d better believe it.”


	2. 1981

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of bttf.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Dave looked down at his little brother, who met his gaze with a fierce glare. He didn’t know where he got it from; he couldn’t think of anyone in their family who was as much of a fighter as Marty. He knew their dad had stood up to Biff when him and Mom were kids, even took him out with a single punch, but he never seemed to have the same kind of anger as his youngest son. The kid was positively wild, throwing himself into the fray at any given opportunity. A part of him almost wished he could be as brave as him, always standing up to Biff, protecting their mom. But he was pretty sure his life expectancy was a lot higher because of it. Marty may call it cowardly, but Dave saw it as good sense. After all, it wasn’t him twitching with pain as antiseptic was applied to the cuts on his face.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” he continued, not phased by his scowl.

“Before or after he kills mom and the rest of you?” came the reply of thinly veiled anger. Clearly he hadn’t blown off all of his steam in that fight or perhaps he was sore from losing. Not that there were any fights that he won. He was far too young and frankly short to win them. Biff was a beefy giant and Marty was a scrawny kid, propelled by nothing but rage. Great as his rage may be, muscle tended to win, no matter how righteous the anger.

“I never said he’d murder us,” Dave rolled his eyes, dabbing at the cut just above his eye, “but there’s only so many knocks to the head you can take. You’re a kid, Marty. It’s not good to get hurt like this all the time. I’m pretty sure you’re gonna get brain damage if you’re not careful.”

“Oh sure, cos it’s _my_ fault,” he hissed back, flinching at the sharp sting, “blame me, not him.”

He snapped, grasping Marty by the shoulders, his eyes alight, “Listen! I’m not trying to blame it on you! He’s an asshole and he’s got no right doing this! But you don’t help yourself. And it isn’t just cos of mom,” he interjected quickly before he had a chance to protest, “I know it isn’t. I know you wanna protect her… but you also wanna fight him. You hate his guts. So do I, but guess what, trying to deck him every time he looks at you the wrong way isn’t going to help! You can’t win, Marty,” his grip eased a little as he watched the blue eyes widen, “I’m sorry. I wish you could, but you can’t beat him. All you’re doing is hurting yourself. And….” Dave frowned, sadness seeping into his looks, “I don’t want lose you too. And I’m scared I will if you keep doing this.”

Marty stared at him. It was actually a little unnerving as now he’d fallen silent and simply to do something, Dave began to plaster up his cuts. It was a minute or two before he heard his voice, drained of all rage.

“I don’t wanna get killed. I just… he owns this town. Mom won’t stand up to him, Linda and you won’t. I…. I guess I just don’t want him to get away with it, y’know? Even if it all it does is piss him off, least I’m doing something,” his shoulders hunched a little and he mumbled dejectedly, “which is more than anyone else does.”

Dave looked at him and smiled a little. Stupid as he could be, he couldn’t help but admire his brother. He had more morals and more bravery than most of the population of Hill Valley put together. He was honest and a trait he hoped he wouldn’t lose as he got older, “You ever think that maybe some people can’t afford to do something? It’s easy for you. You don’t have to think about your job or your mortgage. If grown ups stand up to him, they lose everything. You live here scott free. All you stand to lose is are your teeth,” he crouched down in front of Marty, a hand on his shoulder, “you’re a brave kid, Marty. You’re a good kid. But you can’t keep fighting battles you’ll lose just cos someone should stand up to him.”

“Why don’t you stand up to him?”

It was a question they’d gone over many times, leading to varied arguments from verbal to physical; yet, the kid didn’t seem to be angling for a fight. He simply seemed sad. Dave’s insides squirmed as he was pierced with a look that went right through him. He was meant to be the oldest, the big brother. He was meant to be the one standing up to Biff, not his baby brother. Maybe it was because he had sense, or that he was more willing to listen to his fear than his hatred of Biff. He smiled sadly, squeezing his shoulder.

“Because I’m not you, kid. I’m not brave like you,” he grinned a little, “or stupid. But who knows. Maybe one day I’ll stand up to him. When I’m big enough and old enough to take him down. And if not me, someone will. Guys like him don’t last forever.”

“They don’t?” a sliver of hopefulness could be detected in his voice and he shook his head.

“Nope. Sooner or later, someone brings them down. Or they bring themselves down. It’ll happen, Marty,” he assured him, “just try to be alive by the time it does?” Marty rose his eyebrows, “can you at least try? You’re the only brother I’ve got. And I don’t wanna be stuck with Linda for the rest of my life.”

He managed to break a smile on his face and he nodded, “Can’t make any promises. But I’ll try.”


	3. 1984

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, we finally have Doc.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It was a lazy, quiet day, one that felt like the whole world was caught in a pleasant, sleepy haze. Sunlight spilled through the windows of Doc’s garage, filling it with gentle light and warmth. It felt as though there were even fewer sirens outside to disturb the near silence of the room, fuelling an illusion that they were hidden from the outside world and nothing could disrupt the calmness of their day. There was only the sounds of the ticking of his clocks, echoing back and forth and the hurried scratching of pencils, from Doc for a new equation he was working on and Marty for his homework. It was probably less of a pleasant day for Marty, who’d resigned to spend it on algebra and the American Civil War with a moody scowl. It wasn’t that the kid couldn’t do it (in spite of his insistence), it was just that his worries were scarcely academic; especially with the school burnt down, there was no pressure from peers or teachers to get good grades. And whatever pressure came from his mother was always dwarfed by the pressures of having Biff Tannen as a step-father.

Still, Marty was trying, probably because he knew that independence would be hard to without a GED. There wasn’t much payoff for it now, save probably avoiding a telling off by his tutor, but it would come eventually. Doc leaned back from his work, pausing to drink in the calm atmosphere that was so rare; the world outside those walls were loud and volatile and he couldn’t help but be acutely aware of it, even in the comfort of his own home. Times like this were rare and it would be unwise not to enjoy it. He glanced over at Marty, who was sat cross legged on his cot, apparently having a stand off with whatever work he was doing. He must have noticed the attention on him as he spoke up, eyes still fixed to his work,

“Hey Doc, if I give you twenty bucks, will you do my homework for me?”

“Thank you for the offer Marty, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your academic pursuits.”

He slowly raised his head, eyes narrowed with serious calculation, “Okay. Hundred bucks.”

Doc snorted, grinning at the audacious offer, “I think that’s a bit of a steep price for you to pay for just algebra.”

“It’s okay, you can do my essay on the Battle of Fort Brooke as well,” he replied brightly, “’sides, I’ll just rip it off Biff, it doesn’t matter. That was joke, Doc,” he raised eyebrows, unimpressed, “you remember jokes? You’re ‘sposed to laugh at them.”

“I wasn’t entirely sure you were joking,” Doc pointed out evenly.

“Sure, like you’d ever do my homework for me even if I did pay you,” Marty grumbled, though Doc could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.

“I meant about ripping off Biff. I know that you can handle yourself, Marty, but it probably isn’t the best idea to go around setting him off.”

“Don’t worry, Doc, I haven’t taken anything for months,” he smiled like it was proof and yet Doc’s eyes still flitted over the tiny scars on his left cheek, the bruising nearly faded round his neck. The kid may be tough, but he wasn’t invincible; he’d visited him in hospitals enough times to know that and to know the extent of his step-father’s wrath and he’d rather he didn’t incur it whenever possible. Despite his concerns, it was rarely a topic of conversation, lest Marty decided to bring it up; for what could a fifteen year old do against his stepfather, a stepfather who had the police in his pocket and just about anybody else in a position of power? And he couldn’t ask him to not be angry at the injustice of it all, couldn’t ask him not stand up for his mother, which was how he winded up battered and bruised most of the time. All he had to offer was his companionship, which for Marty at least, seemed to be enough.

“I’ll look over it for you if you want,” he offered, a sort of truce instead of doing the work for him, “you won’t even have to pay me.”

He nodded, moving over to the table where Doc was sat, the entire top covered in charts and graphs, post it notes filled with mad, illegible scribbles. Despite commenting several times on how it all went over his head, Marty still looked always looked at his work with curiosity. It would most likely take many years before he could appreciate the complexities of his work, but he still seemed to enjoy reading through his notes, tracing his fingers over the schematics with wonder. More often than not, he’d ask him what he was working on and listen avidly to the animated explanations, but on the rare occasion when Doc was too caught up in his work, he’d satisfy himself with looking over his work.

“Thanks,” he passed the homework to him, before sitting down, chin in his hands and looked down at the sciencey mess before him, “Jeez, algebra’s got nothing on this.”

“Well, we all have to start somewhere,” Doc responded vaguely, already ticking and crossing a few of his answers and soon, they lapsed into silence again. Though he made no comment on it, he was pleased to see that his grades seemed to be improving. Of course, they were liable to slip back at any time, but what mattered was that he learned something.

“Marty,” he looked up to see the kid reading a chart upside down, before his attention then turned to him, “is it really the seventeenth?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I could have sworn it was thirteenth...”

Marty’s eyes slowly moved to the calendar near by the door, his an eyebrow raised in a bemused expression, the kind that seemed to say he was slightly concerned about Doc’s mental health, “Uh, Doc, that calendar’s from 1971.”

“Is it?” he turned, blinking in surprise, “oh. Yes, I have been meaning to change that for a while now...”

“You keep all your clocks in sync, but you forget to change your calendar for thirteen years?”

“Well, I can’t keep of track of everything. I tried to design a digital calendar once, one that would you wouldn’t have to reset or change, but the algorithm proved simply far too complex,” he looked back down at the date that had been scrawled carelessly at the top of the page, “if it’s the seventeenth today, doesn’t that make your birthday next week?” there was a shift, nearly imperceptible, but Doc felt it all the same. Had he known that his birthday was a contentious subject, he wouldn’t have brought it up, but his reaction (a nod and an ‘uh-huh’) had piqued his curiosity. Sixteenth birthdays tended to be a somewhat momentous occasion and yet it seemed to be the last thing he wanted to talk about.

“Not a fan of birthdays?”

His gaze, which has since fallen listlessly to the table, slowly moved to meet his, “Not really.”

Anger was something he was used to seeing in Marty, whether it was a burning rage or a bitter, simmering resentment; this was neither. It looked more like defeated resignation, the look of someone who’d been let down so many times that they no longer expected anything else. He didn’t want to know what it was that had made him so utterly despondent at the mention of birthdays, but it wasn’t particularly hard to guess what had done it. He wanted to ask if he wouldn’t be spending the day with his other friends, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he had any; if he had, he certainly hadn’t mentioned them and probably wouldn’t spend so much of his time with someone decades his senior. It was an alienating thing, to be connected, willing or no, to someone so vilified as Tannen; that name brought all sorts of associations, ranging from the immoral to the criminal and it was only natural those associations would cling to anyone sharing that name. It wasn’t fair, but drawing attention to that fact wouldn’t help.

“You need to stay at mine kid? Next week, I mean,” the suggestion was quiet and concerned, yet it made Marty’s eyes widen. Gratitude washed across his features and his mouth twitched into a small grin.

“Yeah, Doc,” he gave a short sigh of relief and Doc watched as the tension that had been in his shoulders unspool, “that’d be great.”

-

He’d realised, half way through preparations, that he perhaps may have gone a little too far. Of course, he could have taken it a lot, lot farther than this. There weren’t even decorations, just presents and a cake, but even so he was worried. Marty wasn’t usually skittish, but this was a sensitive issue. He could feel that this was important and making or breaking it could either be brilliant or disastrous. On the surface, it just seemed like a simple celebration, but it could be the first time he was celebrating in years or bring up all sorts of memories. It was risky, but he wasn’t going to let the kid pass his sixteenth birthday with no recognition of it. He at least deserved better than that.

“Perhaps the candles were a bit much, Einstein,” he muttered to himself as the he lit them, frowning as he did, “but it hardly counts as a birthday cake without them,” he blew out the match, pulling back to examine his work. He’d never really had much cause for practising icing, but it didn’t look too bad. His name was legible which was the main thing. He stood, nearly scowling at the cake in concern when Einstein’s bark broke his train of thought, “Oh what is it, Einy?” he sighed, watching the dog hop off the chair, turning round to see him trot happily away and head straight for Marty.

The kid seemed almost as stunned as he did. It may not have been the way Doc had planned it, but he was indeed surprised. His eyes moved from the cake to Doc and back again, as if not quite able to comprehend that one had been made by the other. His bag, which had been half slung off his shoulder, slowly crept down his arm and onto the floor, soon followed by his skateboard. Without saying a word, he came forward, shooting Doc a questioning look this time rather than a stupefied glance.

Doc simply shrugged and with a small smile said, “Happy birthday, Marty.”

He watched as the surprise melted away, leaving in its stead some warm emotion that made colour rush to Marty’s cheeks and the blue in his eyes glitter. Doc didn’t think he’d ever seen him so raw.

He turned to the cake, watching all sixteen little flames flicker. With a small, unsteady voice, he asked, “We don’t have to sing do we?”

Doc grinned and gave a short laugh, “No, we don’t. I wouldn’t dream of putting you through that.”

As he looked back up at Doc, a smile split across his face and for a moment, he seemed to shine, tremulous emotion and utter warmth beaming out of every pore. The moment hung there, both of them with wide smiles and gleaming eyes, before Marty turned and blew out his candles.

-

Marty was sat cross legged on the sofa, Doc on his far left, Einstein in the middle of them, drooping against the kid’s leg, his eyes gazing wistfully up at the cake in his hand; on his right leg leaned three books and a small yellow electric guitar. They scarcely fitted all together on the sofa, but they just about managed. He turned to look at him, on his third slice and watching Frankenstein attentively. It was, indeed, brilliant. There was nothing there to hurt him, no stepfather to shatter a precious moment; it was just them, two friends and a dog watching film and eating birthday cake. A good way, Doc thought, to start his sixteenth year.

“Hey Doc,” his eyes didn’t move from the TV right away as he spoke, “you know, I think this is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” he looked in time just to catch the surprise on his face and he said, with quiet earnest, “thanks,” Doc stared as Marty smiled, the same glowing smile like before, like a sun was burning up inside his chest.

He grinned in disbelief that he had been the one that put it there, “You’re welcome, kid.”


	4. 1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry this took so long; for whatever reason, this was a hard chapter to write.
> 
> Warnings: Explicit child abuse and violence in this. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of bttf.

Marty’s blood soaked t-shirt was wrung into a tight wad, his knuckles white, fingers digging into the material still damp and warm. He didn’t make a sound as the antiseptic was dabbed onto his wounds, but his nostrils were flared and his breaths long and deep. Not only did the welts make his whole back ache, like they’d managed to bite through all the layers of his skin and bruise his bones, they were now being doused with a cleansing burn. He hadn’t had time to see the damage before throwing something on and getting the hell out, but he’d known it’d been bad when he’d felt trickles of something fatter than sweat roll down his back. He just hadn’t known the extent of his injuries, hadn’t given it thought as panic and desperation had overridden everything else. He'd realised when he’d felt the blood already congealing to his t-shirt as he peeled it off and saw it was soaked in crimson, when he turned to see Doc’s face, a concoction of shock, horror and rage. He knew then that it was bad; in fact, his back was a bloodied mess. His skin had been ripped open; Biff had flayed it off his bones.

Doc had insisted on a shower before patching him up properly and Marty had only begrudgingly agreed when he’d pointed out that he couldn’t actually see the injuries for the blood. He’d known it was going to be bad, but he still had to force a fist in his mouth stop him from crying out as the hot water hammered down his open wounds; his skin was being torn off all over again, the pellets of water battering through the layers. He’d watched through eyes blurred with tears as the reddish water ran down his legs, pooling at his feet. He more fell out of the bath tub than climbed, his body shaking as the adrenaline began to drain out of his system. He hadn’t dared to dry near his back, not daring either to look at it in the mirror. He’d walked out to find Doc, two chairs and a medical kit waiting for him. The sight of it made him sway and suddenly Doc was by his side to take the brunt of his weight, gripping his arm and leading him to one of the chairs. He was only vaguely aware of Einstein whimpering and leaning his head on his thigh once he’d sat down, his jaw warm and familiar against his leg. A glass of water was pushed int his hand with the firm order to drink and Marty did, not realising just how thirsty he was. Once empty, it was pulled out of his hands and set aside and Doc’s face came into his vision, peering into his own with a searching look.

“You’re in shock,” was his quiet diagnosis. Fingers carded his hair, a strange gesture of comfort and a tactic to get Marty’s eyes focused on his, “you’re alright, kid. You’re safe. You’re safe, do you understand?”

It was a moment before he nodded. It might have been embarrassing to be told he was safe, like he’d just woken up from nightmare, if it hadn’t been so grounding, it didn’t feel good to hear it, “yeah Doc,” he rasped, “y-yeah, I get it.”

Doc frowned and something indiscernible seemed to fill his gaze. He held him there a moment longer, his hand warm and steady against him. Then, he pulled away and grim determination stole over his features, “We need to get you cleaned up,,” he gripped his arm again, steering him round until his back was to him. The steady process of staining the waistband of his jeans with blood had already started again, “I’m sorry Marty, but I’m afraid this is going to hurt.”

“’s okay, Doc,” he quietly replied, already twisting the sodden garment in his hand. He knew what was coming and it would be bad, but he reminded himself that he had been through worse, “’m ready.”

It was a mostly silent procedure. Marty didn’t make sound and he trembled more from shock and adrenaline depletion than the pain of it. The only interjections came from Doc, asking him about if he was alright, if he was feeling light headed or dizzy or cold or anything else; he had a feeling the questions came from both medical expertise and deep concern, the latter of which made a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. He hadn’t asked him what had happened yet, but the question would come. And Marty would answer- he owed the guy that at least after showing up on his doorstep asking for help that he had no choice but to give. Yet he didn’t want to talk about it. What he wanted to was crawl into bed and never emerge again, but before he could, he had to sit through this and in the silence the question would emerge. It wasn’t the first time he’d come to Doc’s after an altercation with Biff, either to get out of the place for a few days or because he needed help fixing himself up. And when Doc asked what happened, he was more than happy to tell him, because no one else was around to listen, because he was still pissed off at Biff at the time, his blood still boiling from the fight. But this was different. Biff and Marty came to blows, they fought and it was closer to a fair fight than it was abuse, despite his age or what anyone said. This, however, was nothing like a fair fight. This was something that happened rarely and though he could and had done more damage with his fists than with his belt, this was somehow worse. He didn’t like to admit it and he never had, not to anyone, but it was the only time that Biff had ever scared him. Because he had all the power then, he was the one who was in control and Marty couldn’t fight, he couldn’t run, he just had to somehow get through it, he had to grit his teeth and shut his eyes and pray it would be over soon.

He had been scared the first time it had happened, but that was only fair; he had been twelve then, not quite as hardened by years of fights and the slow decimation of his family. He was vastly different five years on, a young man acutely aware of the misery of everyone around him, who had long since steeled himself against Biff’s brutality. He’d seen worse, been through worse; and yet, he had been terrified. Those five years washed away to leave nothing but that scared twelve year old again when it dawned on him what was going to happen, when their eyes had met and there was nothing in Biff’s but a calm, dangerous rage. The moment hung there for who knew how long, neither of them making a move. Marty was certainly frozen in shock, but it was like Biff was too, like he couldn’t believe the kid’d had the audacity or the stupidity to actually do what he’d done. It took an eternity, but slowly, silently, the eyes still growing with rage still fixed on their prey, he reached down to unbuckle his belt. That’s when the terror exploded in Marty, that’s when he began to shake, watching him pull it out with cold determination and knowing what was going to happen next. The memories of last time, which he hadn’t even thought about since then, which had only been reduced to the mere shadows in vague dark dreams, came back to him in horrifying vividity, the same horror and fear he’d felt then now ran through his veins anew. It took him a second, just a second to stare at the belt, frozen with panic, before he tore away, throwing the doors open, unwittingly flinging himself into three pairs of strong hands, pinching and pulling and tearing him away from freedom.

He’d cried out against his will, a high pitched, desperate sound that earned him nothing but a chorus of laughter, doing nothing to stop the bruising hands from keeping him in their clutches. They soon started to tear at his t-shirt under some order Biff must have given, unheard by Marty, who didn’t hear much over his shouts and the blood rushing in his ears. He put up a valiant struggle, but there was only so much one teenager could against three fully grown men. The material tore under their fingers, ripping it right off of him, the remains now in tatters by his feet. There was a beat, a moment, when silence descended and he looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, to see his stepfather standing with the weapon in his hand.

“What were you looking for, kid?” his voice was abnormally quiet and Marty’s heartbeat seemed to treble in speed, “in that safe. What were you looking for?”

He could feel the attention on him now, both Biff and his men looking at him, expectant and curious for his answer. He swallowed, though there was no moisture left in his mouth, “Nothing,” he breathed, not daring to raise his voice, like the volume could somehow worsen his situation, "I-I didn’t even know what was in there, I swear.”

Biff gave him a calculating look, looking for the lies and mistruths in his reply. The moment was held in a thick, heavy silence, the tension nearly palpable. Then, with no warning, in one swift movement he swung the belt up and brought it down with a crack that echoed through the room. He didn’t cry out then; his eyes popped and his mouth was open in a gasp of shock, but no noise came out, surprised into a taut silence. It was only when he brought it down again that the shock of it dissipated and was replaced with the pain, the stinging, blistering ache that burned right through him. Then, he screamed against his will, even though he’d told himself that he would be better this time, that he would be silent and stoic and not make a sound. He was disgusted with himself that he’d broken so easily. They came, one after another, a furious hail of lashes brought down over and over on his back. He didn’t stop, not when Marty’s knees gave way under the sheer force of the blows, not when resolve dissolved and he began to openly cry, not even when the last vestiges of his pride and bravery were shattered and he begged for his stepfather to stop. It was utterly relentless. Nobody spoke, not even the jackals holding him made any passing comment or gave a whoop of laughter. There was nothing but the sounds the belt whistling upwards and cracking down, accompanied with his own screams and cries.

When he brought down the last stroke, the only thing keeping him up were the strong hands gripping his arms. Something was said to his men and suddenly, the his arms were dropped and he fell to his knees with a dull thud. He took the opportunity to breathe, taking in only a few deep ragged breaths before he broke back down into wretched crying, shaking hands hiding his face. He knelt for a minute or two, trying to calm himself, concentrating on anything else but the blood dribbling down his spine and the shaking in his hands. His cries hitched into a gasp as thick fingers gripped his hair, yanking his head up. Biff’s face was mere inches from his own, the smell of alcohol and cigars masking something fouler upon his face. His hands instinctively reached up to release the fistful of hair, but only lingered near the thick wrist, not quite daring to claw it away.

“What were you looking for?” the question was growled out again, “did you know what was in that safe?”

He tried to shake his head, but the slightest movement pulled at his hair, “I-I didn’t know, I swear,” his words were thick with tears and came out in a hurried babble, “I was j-just- I wanted to know s-so I tried to get in, but I didn’t know, Biff, I swear I d-didn’t know what was in there.”

The meaty fist pulled him up so that he was upright on his knees, Biff straightening up with him, yet their faces still had a hair’s breadth between them, “You come in here again, into my office, tryin’ to get into my safe, I’ll kill you,” fingers tightened their grip and he cried out in pain as his hair was tugged, “you understand, boy? You’ll be the second McFly your mom has to bury, I mean it,” he pushed him back down to the ground, rising to his full height, disgust and anger twisting his face, “get out.”

Marty didn’t need telling twice. He scrambled to his feet, tripping over himself as he ran to the door. He didn’t even pack when he got to his room, he brought no bag, no change of clothes, no money, nothing. He didn’t even bring his skateboard. He just threw on a t-shirt and ran, as fast and far as he could, only stopping when a stitch ripped his side open and he could scarcely catch his breath. Doubled over on some dark street, his half gasped half sobbed, the pain in his back crippling and his lungs burning for air. It took him a good few minutes to catch his breath and a few more to get a hold of himself. He had to tell himself to get a grip, to brush it off and carry on because he could freak out at Doc’s, he could lose his shit there, but not in Hill Valley, not at night in some god forsaken part of town. Ignoring the agony of his back and the stabbing of his stitch, he wiped his cheeks and carried on running. He wasn’t sure how long it took him, but eventually he arrived, breathless and desperate, but finally safe. And now he sat, a little calmer, but in just as much agony as Doc spread what felt like a healing fire over his skin and still he remained as raw and open as his wounds.

“What did he use?”

Marty turned at the question and was met with an uncharacteristically sober face. For whatever reason, shame squirmed and writhed like snakes in his belly, “A belt,” was his soft response.

“Are you sure?”

He frowned, “Yeah I’m sure, Doc,” he was still being fixed with that stare and it felt like it pierced right through him. He could sense he still wasn’t convinced and he briefly looked away, his words quieter, “he took it off in front of me.”

He gave his wounds a calculating look, which made Marty feel like he was under a microscope. If he’d had the luxury, he would have shrunk away from him; he didn’t want this particular part of him analysed, least of all by him, “It looks bad for a belt, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well he was pretty pissed off.”

There was a pause and he could feel his eyes on him. He wondered what he was thinking, staring at his friend’s back, fresh wounds overlapping old scars, “He’s done this before.”

It wasn’t a question and it threw him. He knew Doc had seen the scars before, but he said it as though the weight of what they meant had only now just dawned on him.

“Yeah.”

The antiseptic returned, taking him by surprise and a hiss escaped from between his teeth.

“Sorry, I’m sure it must sting,” they continued on in silence as he diligently carried on his work. He was getting close to the bandaging stage, which was good as it meant that it would be over soon and Marty could finally get some sleep and pray that Doc didn’t want to talk about it tomorrow. But the silence was broken as Doc spat out from under his breath, “that son of a bitch.”

It was the anger in his voice that caught him off guard. Maybe he just lacked preparation to see him like this; because the guy had visited him in hospital before, had done all sorts of checks to see if his kidneys hadn’t been bruised or his wrist hadn’t been broken when he was beat to hell, yet he’d never seemed to angry. Or maybe it was because Marty had played it off more those times, maybe because instead of being wrapped up in anger, ranting and raving, he was quiet and there was anything but anger in his eyes. They’d been doing this since he was fourteen and Doc had learnt that there was no point being angry and his behalf (or at least to show it) because it wouldn’t change a thing, not how much Biff liked to use his fists or how often Marty was on the receiving end of them. This shouldn’t be any different.

Tentatively, he turned round again, “Doc, it’s fine.”

“This is not fine,” he muttered, throwing a wad of sodden material in the trash before dousing a fresh one with disinfectant, “it was never ‘fine’ the other times, but at least then you could run, protect yourself, fight back at least,” their eyes met and Marty flinched at their intensity, “Marty, he held you down and beat you. In what world is this ‘fine’?”

They held the gaze for a moment, Doc glaring and Marty wide eyed. It wasn’t fine. It was not fine that he was in that situation again, it was not fine that the thought of having to eventually go back home made him shake. How scared, how humiliated he would be when he saw Biff again, both of them knowing that he had won the battle, if not the war was very far from fine. He didn’t want _Doc_ to know that though. He didn’t want anybody, especially him, not only to see him at his most vulnerable, but making a point of showing how much he knew it. He wasn’t trying to make things worse, he was angry for him and he probably didn’t get why Marty wasn’t angry as well. Maybe anger would come later, but for now, there was only fear and hurt and all he wanted to do was lick his wounds in peace and not think about how messed up it all was.

“It... I...” he turned away, missing the expression on Doc’s face soften, “I know it’s not fine, Doc, I just... but it’s never been okay, y’know? This isn’t any different to all the other times.”

There was a pause. “It is though, isn’t it?” Something about the gentle quiet in his voice, the warm hand gripping his arm made hot tears spring to his eyes. He was twelve again, with no acquired bravery of someone beyond his years, just a scared kid still reeling from the abuse of his stepfather. Only Doc was with him this time, with no judgement or criticism, only giving the knowledge that if he broke, it would be okay; maybe he would tomorrow, or another day, but he didn’t want to right then. He had had enough of pain for the night, mending or damaging. The knowledge that he could was enough for now. He rested his head on his arms, leant on the back of the chair and squeezing his eyes shut, wishing he was anywhere but there and yet finding there was no other place he wanted to be. He took in a breath, short and determined, fighting against burning in his eyes and the lump in his throat.

“It’s okay,” his voice cracked and he started again, voice over filled with firmness, “I’m okay.”

The hand lingered, squeezing, before relinquishing with a soft, “alright kid”. The disinfectant returned and he allowed a few tears to fall, a single tremor to ripple through him as he was racked by a silent sob. But that was all. He stayed stoic and quiet, not a word passing between them as the last of the welts and splits in his skin were taken care of and soon Doc’s hands moving to dress his wounds now the worst of it was over. The last vestiges of adrenaline drained away, leaving him with nothing but a deep exhaustion seeping right through him. It helped that even though his back still throbbed, there was no sting or burn and no dribbles of blood running down his skin to keep him awake; the burning in his eyes ceased and the lump in his throat was swallowed away, leaving in its stead a drowsy melancholy.

“We’re nearly done,” Doc murmured, voice absent in concentration. He noted Marty’s ruined clothes, both jeans and t-shirt stained with blood, “you brought a change of clothes?”

“I forgot,” he explained sadly.

“Well,” he said, leaning back with to examine his work with a critical frown, before standing up “you’re all done now. I’ll get you something to sleep in and we can wash your clothes in the morning,” the jeans were perhaps salvageable, but the t-shirt was a lost cause. He’d probably have t be sent home in one of Doc’s shirts. He patted Marty’s shoulder when he moved to follow, a silent insistence for him to sit down and he didn’t summon up the energy to protest. Slowly and carefully, not wanting to upset the freshly dressed wounds or his stiff joints, he moved so he was no longer straddling the chair and sunk forward onto his thighs with a sigh. He stared at the floor, listening to the sounds of Doc opening drawers, clothes softly falling to the floor as he tried to pick one that wouldn’t drown Marty in size.

The images of what happened replayed in his mind as he waited, watching them in his minds eye as there was little else to think about. He’d always known, somewhere in the back of his mind that in any other world, in any other place that wasn’t Biff’s playground, he’d be arrested for what he did to him and his mother. He’d always skirted around it, brushing off concerns when eyes fell on his black eyes and bloodied knuckles, remarking with a shrug and grin about how they should have seen the other guy, knowing full well that the other guy had almost certainly won the fight. He’d done it for so long and yet it had taken all that time to admit that what he was doing was not okay and just as long for someone to convince him that that was alright. He didn’t always have to be brave.

“Marty?”

He looked up saw Doc standing there, some silvery grey material in his hand, watching him with a frown of an imperceptible emotion on his face. He gave him a weary smile, pulling himself up to his feet. He’d had no plans on prolonging staying conscious, but when he reached him, instead of taking it off him and finally collapsing into bed, he sank into an embrace.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, eyes closed as his head lent against his shoulder.

Doc’s arms hovered for a moment, before deciding to fall around the top of his shoulders, a hand in cradling his head, “It’s alright, kid.”

For once, Marty agreed.


End file.
